


Poppies

by tsauergrass



Series: Prompted [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Unhappy Ending, brief mention of trauma, poppies, poppy field
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: Prompted by @jhcseokk on Tumblr: "Drarry in a large field of poppies"Draco takes Harry to a field of poppies.





	Poppies

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Маки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392967) by [stuffcobbsays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffcobbsays/pseuds/stuffcobbsays), [WTF_Drarry_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Drarry_2020/pseuds/WTF_Drarry_2020)



It started with a small thing.

“Are we there yet?”

“No,” Draco says. Harry’s eyelashes flutter underneath his fingers, and he gently eases them. “Not yet.”

Underneath their bare feet grasses grow thick and dewy, pressed flat against the tumbling earth. A cool gust of wind sends a flock of larks over the hills, tiny grey dots across the clear sky.

“Are we there yet?” Harry asks again, like a child. Draco smiles.

“No, not yet.”

It started with a forgotten name. Or perhaps even longer before, a crossed-out shopping list, a misplaced magnet. But the first he noticed was when they got back from Ron and Hermione’s. Early spring, the dusk drawing faint bruises at the seams of the city. They shed their coats on the couch, two matched blocks of colors.

“It’s a nice name, isn’t it?” Harry smiled. “For the kid—uh, what was it?”

“Rose.” Draco gathered both their coats in his arms and kissed Harry’s temple. “It’s Rose.”

In front of him Harry slows, feet uncertain. Draco takes a careful look.

“It’s uphill,” he says gently. “One step at a time, yes?”

Harry’s hand twitches, but he tentatively steps forward. Draco walks slowly behind him, guiding him in the correct direction.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, a laugh in his voice.

“Sh. It’s a secret.”

It was only when it worsened that they discovered all the accidents weren’t—accidents. Memory loss, the healer told them with a sad look in her eyes. And gradually worsening. It may be a side effect of trauma, or coming back from the dead. They couldn’t be certain. There were too many possibilities and too little cases.

There was no cure.

The wind breathes. Harry relaxes, his eyelids quieting underneath Draco’s fingers. He reaches out, as if to brush the wind; his skin is warm underneath Draco’s hands. Sun-kissed, golden. Alive.

Draco gently turns Harry and slows them to a stop. Harry’s smile is faint, as if he doesn’t notice it himself.

“Ready?” Draco asks. Then he removes his hands.

In front of them, a thousand red poppies bloom on the hill.

The day they went back from the healer they fought, and cried, and hugged each other as they hiccuped. But it wasn’t just memory loss. Harry started to forget meetings and shopping lists and what day it was, and Rose’s name, once and twice and thrice until he buried his face into his hands and cried in silence. Abandoned books sprawled in notes because Harry couldn’t remember what the last page was talking about. Harry forgetting Ron’s birthday, and Hermione’s birthday, and his birthday, locking himself in his own room for hours when he realized later. Harry struggling with words, exploding in frustration and shrinking into silence. Harry quietly watching from afar when their friends gathered together. Draco finding Harry collapsed in the midst of sprawled out boxers and t-shirts with angry tears in his eyes, because _I can’t find my mum’s letter, Draco, where is my mum’s letter—_ and Draco had to hold him in his arms but Harry wouldn’t calm down and cried hysterically until Draco rocked him to sleep.

Later he found the letter sitting in the fridge, behind the half-empty milk.

Beside him, Harry looks at the hill of poppies, lips slightly parted. His hair ruffled in the wind, soft, thick curls dark like raven. Scars on his cheeks, on his neck, on the back of his hand; faint, white lines of records of everything he fought for. Of everything he loved. Proof, that he lived just like everyone else did.

Isn’t it unfair, a bright soul in a broken mind?

Memories of them. Brought up without thought and left in silence. Trickling away, slowly; a dinner date they had at a fancy restaurant in Paris. A muggle movie they watched. His favorite flavor of ice cream from the shop at the corner around their flat; Draco’s favorite. One day, he will forget all of them: dancing barefoot on the wooden floors in their living room, laughing as they bumped into furniture. Chasing meteor showers in the mountains, kissing in broken sleeping bags. Their first kiss in the snow under the pine trees, where they’d just finished stuffing snow into each other’s collar, yelping and laughing, faces flushed. Their second kiss. Their third. All of them, slipping into darkness like sand slipping through an hourglass.

One day, Harry will forget him, too.

The poppies sway in the wind, drops of blood red among the grassy land. The grasses whisper, and hush; the blossoms bend forward, backward, tipping against the blue sky.

“Do you like it?” Draco asks softly.

Harry turns and looks at him. His eyes welling behind the glasses, searching frantically, helplessly, to remember Draco. To remember his face. To remember the way he looks at him, tender with care; to remember his grey eyes, his curved brows, his strong jaw. To remember his name. To remember him standing against a hill of poppies, against a canvas of blue sky, a faint smile on his face, blond hair ruffled in the wind.

One day, he will forget this, too.

Harry reaches out and touches Draco’s face. Cups his jaw. Caresses his cheeks with his thumb. Traces his lips. Traces his nose. Draco covers his hands with his own, cool and soft.

“I love it,” Harry says shakily. _I love you. I love you._

Draco kisses the pad of Harry’s thumb.

Over the hills, the blood red poppies sway in the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry here shows symptoms of Early-onset Alzheimer’s, which is when symptoms begin before the age of 65. It accounts for about 5% of all people who have the Alzheimer’s disease. Please keep in mind that as this is a drabble, I only did rough research and this is not intended to be used as a medical reference of any kind. Great inspiration taken from _Still Alice_ by Lisa Genova.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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